


blood in the dark

by likecharity



Category: Mr. Robot (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, BDSM, Barebacking, Blood, Breathplay, CMNM, Choking, Comeplay, Consensual But Not Safe Or Sane, Crying, Dominant Masochism, Face-Fucking, Hate Sex, M/M, Oral Sex, Painplay, Power Play, Rough Oral Sex, Rough Sex, S&M, Sexual Violence, Spit As Lube, Trampling, Unsafe Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-11
Updated: 2017-12-11
Packaged: 2019-02-13 14:30:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12986049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/likecharity/pseuds/likecharity
Summary: Basically an alternate take on that scene in 3x09 where Tyrell was beating Mr. Robot up and Mr. Robot seemed SUPER INTO IT. Let's just pretend Price didn't interrupt. (This is Mr. Robot throughout, but I included Elliot in the tags because it is still technically him, and the fic is from Tyrell's POV so he is seeing him as Elliot? I hope that makes sense.)"What if I were to stop?" he asks, straightening up so he's no longer resting against the bulge in Elliot's jeans. "After all, it's no fun if you're enjoying it."Elliot scoffs. "That's exactly why it's fun and you know it."





	blood in the dark

**Author's Note:**

> LISTEN. THIS IS REALLY FUCKED UP. LIKE TRULY JUST THE MOST UNFORGIVABLE KIND OF VIOLENT SMUT. I am in no way trying to portray this as any kind of healthy BDSM dynamic AT ALL. But for what it's worth Mr. Robot is 10000% into it. (Also he does all of this without Elliot's knowledge, in case that requires a warning?)
> 
> Again, this is Mr. Robot!Elliot, but I'm referring to him as Elliot because the whole thing's from Tyrell's POV. I don't know if that will just make it seem like I've written a really OOC Elliot. It might help to imagine Mr. Robot during the dialogue? THIS SHOW IS CONFUSING TO WRITE FOR.
> 
> And, as with all of my fic, this is TOO DAMN LONG for just porn. I'm so sorry.

Tyrell is so riled up that it takes him a while—longer than it should, perhaps—to realize what's really going on. To realize that through it all, Elliot has made no attempt to defend himself. Tyrell is sure he could overpower him if he did, but Elliot hasn't even _tried_ ; he's just lying there, taking the punches. It's a certain noise he makes, perhaps, that finally fits the pieces together in Tyrell's brain—a moan that sounds far more sexual than distressed.

He stops abruptly, letting go of Elliot's arm where he has it pressed to his throat.

"You're getting off on this?"

Elliot just laughs, unashamed. "Well done, genius. Thought the massive fucking erection would've clued you in sooner." 

Tyrell can't hide his surprise. He shifts in Elliot's lap experimentally, sitting back a little to feel it. The smooth fabric of his pants brushes the rough denim of Elliot's jeans, the back of his thigh nudging the hard swell of Elliot's cock. For a moment he doesn't say anything, too shocked to speak. 

It's not that it's the first time he's felt Elliot get hard. Matters have progressed much further in the past. But it's never been a result of something like this—Tyrell punching him, knocking him to the floor, choking him. He never would have imagined such things could produce this reaction in Elliot. _Elliot_ was always the one to get rough, throwing Tyrell around the arcade that first night, and later around the basement of Red Wheelbarrow. Pushing him to his knees or onto all fours, never afraid to cause a little pain or humiliation as long as Tyrell was willing. Which, of course, he always was.

Tyrell never would have expected him to reverse their roles.

"I thought—" he attempts, puzzling it out, but Elliot interrupts him.

"Yeah, well. I'm a complex individual. Now quit brooding and get back to it. Where were we?"

Tyrell frowns. He can't help but be reminded of Joanna. She wanted to be hurt, too, even though she was always so in control, so dominant. She would encourage Tyrell's sadistic streak, keeping it in check all the while. He feels a wave of pain again as he thinks of her, grief and anger stinging his sinuses and threatening to bring tears. He focuses the surge of emotion as he stares down at the man on the floor under him. It's different now, realizing that Elliot wants this. His rage was a mindless kind before and he was in desperate need of somebody to take it out on, hell-bent on simply causing pain, but knowing that Elliot is a willing recipient—it changes things.

The other things they did—it was hard to tell, then, whether Elliot _really_ wanted it or if he was simply appeasing Tyrell. He would always be so dismissive, treating Tyrell like a toy. He seemed to be able to sense Tyrell's neediness, would get irritated by it. "If I let you suck my dick will you quit breathing down my neck and let us both get on with our work?" he'd snap. Tyrell wouldn't have even noticed that he was no longer focused on the project and was instead staring at Elliot with a shameful longing. "Alright, if that's what you need," Elliot would sigh, disdainful, suddenly grabbing a fistful of hair at the back of Tyrell's head and dragging him to the floor under the desk. "Get it out of your system."

Of course, it was never out of his system, not until he realized Elliot had been secretly working against him the whole time.

But through it all, Elliot was never...like this. Seemingly open to whatever Tyrell might want to do to him, actively _enjoying_ letting Tyrell take charge. Perhaps Tyrell never actually tried to turn the tables, but Elliot certainly never gave any indication that it was something he might want. He has always been so guarded, so controlling. The thought that he might let Tyrell do whatever he wants to him is intoxicating and he can't help the arousal he feels from it. He thought his feelings for Elliot were dead but something about this, the feel of Elliot's desire—it's hard to resist. This time Elliot is the needy one. 

He has to test the theory. "What if I were to stop?" he asks, straightening up so he's no longer resting against the bulge in Elliot's jeans. "After all, it's no fun if you're enjoying it."

Elliot scoffs. "That's exactly why it's fun and you know it."

It's hard to argue; Tyrell is already getting excited in spite of himself. "But you don't just enjoy this," he continues, trying to maintain control. "You want it. You need it."

Elliot rolls his eyes. "Please. As if I need anything from you—"

In a flash Tyrell wraps his fingers around Elliot's throat, hard enough to cut him off mid-sentence. Elliot lets out a strangled groan and squirms beneath him. Tyrell reaches back with his other hand, finding Elliot's cock in his jeans and grinning when he feels Elliot buck up into his palm instantly, giving him his answer. Tyrell snatches his hand away, satisfied. His heart is racing. Seeing Elliot under him like this, powerless and desperate, makes all of his complicated feelings come flooding back. He still wants to destroy him—he wanted that from the moment Elliot walked into his house tonight—but now he wants it in a different way.

He loosens his grip just a little and with his other hand reaches for Elliot's mouth, latex-clad fingers prying it open. Actually he uses more force than is necessary—it's easy, shockingly easy, Elliot parting his lips for Tyrell's fingers like he _wants_ them in his mouth, and the thought sends another stab of arousal to Tyrell's groin. He pushes two fingers between Elliot's lips, slides them deep, far back on Elliot's tongue until he gags. Tyrell is hard in an instant, and lightheaded, his dick aching in the confines of his pants.

"Fuck," he hisses, removing his other hand from Elliot's throat, fumbling in his hurry to get his cock out. He takes his fingers back out of Elliot's mouth, finding he needs both hands to unbuckle his belt, and Elliot grins as soon as Tyrell pushes his underwear down and exposes his erection.

" _There_ you go. Now we're talking."

Something about his tone is irritating, and without thinking, Tyrell grasps his cock by the base and shoves it into Elliot's open mouth, shutting him up. Elliot's never even sucked his cock before, and Tyrell can't believe he would just lie there and take it, but that's exactly what he's doing. The angle is awkward and Tyrell is being too rough and he doesn't care. Elliot's mouth—his _throat_ —is hot and wet and tight, constricting around him each time he gags. He's choking on it, drooling on it, and through it all he's making no attempt to resist beyond his body's natural reaction to the intrusion. He lies flat, not touching Tyrell at all, letting him do exactly as he pleases. 

Tyrell leans forward, placing one hand flat against the floor for better leverage, and Elliot simply adjusts with him, tipping his head back, chin up. Tyrell plunges his cock deep and there's a wet, ugly noise. The feeling is fiercely pleasurable—both the physical sensation and the fact that he caused Elliot to make such a sound. He pulls out for a second, only long enough for Elliot to gasp for air, and then thrusts back in, as deep as he dares.

Then he straightens up again, pulling out, giving Elliot a chance to get his breath back properly. And maybe (though he is loath to admit it) he wants to check in, get a proper look at Elliot's expression and make sure this is okay. Elliot's face is red, his mouth slick, and just as Tyrell looks into his eyes, silently questioning, his expression softening perhaps—Elliot _spits_ at him. A mouthful of saliva, thick with pre-come and faintly pink with blood from an earlier injury, lands right on Tyrell's expensive shirt.

For a second Tyrell is stunned, frozen. Elliot is staring at him in challenge, insolent, his jaw jutted upwards. His cheeks and chin are wet, his eyes dark and glossy. Anger flares up inside of Tyrell and he yanks Elliot's head up off the floor, shoving his cock back into his mouth, forcing him down until Elliot's nose is pressed against his stomach and getting blood on the tip of his tie. He holds firm onto the back of his skull to keep him still, and Elliot chokes again, spluttering for air around Tyrell's cock. Even as Tyrell does it he recognizes that this is no punishment, that this is exactly the reaction Elliot was hoping to get, and it makes him all the more furious.

His knees are pressed into Elliot's armpits, and Elliot's arms are flung wide apart and still, as still as if his wrists were held by the restraints on either side of Tyrell's bed. Tyrell wonders what else he can do, what else Elliot will allow, and the thought is overwhelming. Excitement floods his system, overtaking everything else. He withdraws his cock from Elliot's mouth once again, lets him cough and sputter, and then lays it over Elliot's face, pushing the head against a sharp cheekbone, smearing it over plush wet lips. Elliot's eyes are streaming now, his pupils blown wide, and he stares Tyrell down as he opens his mouth, waiting for more. Tyrell goes to guide himself back in, and at the last second Elliot suddenly bares his teeth, lets them graze the flushed, shining tip of Tyrell's cock.

Tyrell gasps but can't bring himself to pull away in time—Elliot bites, sharp incisors pressing into the tender skin enough that Tyrell flinches and swears, pain jolting through him. Fury rises up inside of him again and before he even knows what he's doing he's slapping his cock against Elliot's face, brutal, and Elliot's wincing and squirming but it's not enough.

Tyrell grabs at his nose, his gloved fingers struggling to grip it, Elliot's face slippery-wet all over from blood and tears, sweat and spit and pre-come. He pinches Elliot's nostrils closed as firmly as he can and waits, waits for Elliot to gasp in a breath. Tortured seconds pass by while Elliot resists as long as he can, and Tyrell doesn't even know if it's really out of defiance, or just a desire for that dizzying, thrilling feeling of running out of air. If it's the latter, Tyrell can give him that—filling his mouth again as soon as it opens, fitting his cock in deep. He keeps it there and looks down at Elliot's face, pleased to find him almost ugly for once, with his bruised lips stretched wide around Tyrell's dick, his face flushed scarlet and glistening, his eyes red-rimmed and teary.

"Is this what you want?" Tyrell snaps, keeping hold of Elliot's nose, determined. Elliot trembles weakly for a long moment, and then finally Tyrell feels him begin to struggle in earnest, body suddenly writhing under him. Immediately Tyrell lets up, pulls both his hand and cock away and watches keenly as Elliot gulps and wheezes for air, his whole body spasming beneath him. 

But he recovers quickly. His chest still heaves but there's a sneer on his face as he meets Tyrell's eyes once again and rasps, "Is that all you got?"

Tyrell lashes out instantly without thought, the words lighting a fire of rage in him. His punch to Elliot's cheek is more of a slap, his hands shaking too much to form fists, but it's pleasing all the same. Elliot's mouth is bloody and he's grinning, and the worst part is that Tyrell would have done this to him months ago, if Elliot had only asked. But of course, he would never ask; too proud. Too ashamed? It's hard to imagine Elliot being ashamed of anything. 

Tyrell wants to shame him.

He tugs at the zip of Elliot's stupid hoodie, and Elliot moves with him to let him pull it off and toss it aside along with the t-shirt he's wearing under it. The scar on his stomach is revealed, jagged and raised. Tyrell has always hated looking at it, and Elliot usually prefers to keep it covered, so Tyrell hasn't had to face it very often, but right now there's a strange, sick satisfaction he feels when he looks at the scar tissue and knows it's there because of him. It only lasts a second, though, and then the guilt is back. Even as he tries to tell himself _he deserved it_ , and _I'd do it again_ , he feels a familiar nagging pain in his heart.

He doggedly ignores it and continues to strip him, shifting to unzip his jeans, pulling them forcefully down Elliot's skinny legs, yanking off his shoes and socks. He wants him totally naked on the cold hardwood floor, vulnerable. Elliot puts up no fight, pliant, moving when necessary to allow Tyrell to undress him until all that's left is his boxers. Even covered, Elliot's erection is obscene, stretching at the cotton. There's a darker spot on the black fabric where he's leaking, and Tyrell feels an unwelcome stab of sympathy when he thinks of just how badly Elliot must want to be touched.

He shakes himself, huffing out a breath, pushing his hair out of his eyes. His hands are sweating horribly in the latex gloves but he doesn't want to take them off, likes the clinical, almost dehumanizing air they add to this—as though Elliot is too disgusting to be touched by Tyrell's bare hands. He peels Elliot's boxers off carefully, in such a way as to limit the amount of friction the fabric might give against his cock. Still, he can't help the urge he feels to touch it—to have Elliot gasp and thrust up into his fist, to be the cause of his surely grateful moans.

No. He doesn't deserve it.

Tyrell flings the boxers to one side and stands up over Elliot, pleased with the sight of him lying there utterly naked and defenseless, laid out on display for him. He does up the button of his own fly, not fully tucking his cock away again but covering himself just enough to give the illusion of being fully dressed, appreciating the contrast.

Elliot has gone very quiet, he realizes—quieter than he ever usually is, and he should be glad of it, but it's unnerving. He wants him to say something, almost wishes he would be the one giving orders once again, and he hates himself for even thinking it. It must just be force of habit, he tells himself. It's not that he _wants_ it, he just _expects_ it.

He crosses his arms and enjoys the sight below him for a long moment, waiting for Elliot to squirm under his gaze—but he doesn't. He shifts slightly against the hard floor, but it's as if he's merely making himself comfortable there. He never looks away from Tyrell's eyes. He's so skinny—his cock looks thick where it rests against his stomach, swollen and dark. Tyrell's mouth waters and he fights back the familiar urge to drop to his knees and taste it.

Instead he kicks Elliot's legs apart. They spread easily. Elliot's chest is still heaving, his breath coming quick, revealing his excitement. He hasn't even bothered to wipe his face and it's still smeared with wet, a trickle of bright blood coming down from his lip. Tyrell steps forward between Elliot's thighs and experimentally lifts his foot, raising it over Elliot's cock. Elliot huffs out a sort of laugh, and it's a pleased sound, impressed, as if he's surprised but delighted by this new development. 

"Now that's creative," he says lightly, and then groans low and loud as Tyrell brings his foot down. 

He doesn't use too much force, just enough that he can feel out the hard shape of Elliot's erection through the sole of his shoe. Elliot's body jolts involuntarily and Tyrell presses harder, twisting his ankle just slightly, like he's putting out a cigarette or killing an insect. It feels so _good_ , even better than he could have anticipated, to have Elliot literally underfoot like this, his cock getting crushed by Tyrell's designer shoe.

"This is all you deserve," he grits out. "Cockroach." 

He puts more weight into it, just to see how much Elliot can take—and finally Elliot lets out a whimper and surrenders, reaching out to grab hold of Tyrell's leg and push him off. Instantly Tyrell is on all fours over him, pinning his arms back on either side.

"This isn't over."

"Glad to hear it," Elliot gets out through panting breaths. "Don't go soft on me now."

Tyrell scowls, frustrated, using his knees to nudge at Elliot's thighs and spread them even wider apart. At the same time he sticks two fingers into Elliot's mouth again, doing his best to avoid the blood.

"Get them wet," he orders, and Elliot grins around them, a dirty grin, his eyes heavy-lidded.

Tyrell sits back on his heels and hitches Elliot's knees up for better access, reaches between his legs and finds his hole. For a moment he just rubs at it, slicking his gloved fingertips over it, holding Elliot down by a bony hip as though he needs to.

"You sure you know what you're doing down there?" Elliot asks then, voice low and rough.

Angrily Tyrell forces a finger inside of him, too quickly, rough enough that it makes Elliot hiss, and squirm just a little under Tyrell's hand. He's so unbelievably tight, but Tyrell pushes his finger in to the knuckle anyway, breathing heavily, his hair hanging limp and sweaty in front of his eyes. He works it back out again, slowly, and then tucks his other finger beside it and presses them both in together. Elliot whimpers this time and the sound is so thrilling it goes straight to Tyrell's cock. With his free hand he goes to pull it out again, wrapping his fist around it to alleviate some of the ache. It feels good to jerk off while he's doing this to Elliot, to look at Elliot's own erection and know that he isn't going to touch it yet, that Elliot is going to suffer.

He curls his fingers a little and begins to thrust them as much as he can, shallow and without the slightest sense of finesse. He's too tight for Tyrell to be able to find much of a rhythm, and Tyrell is far too excited besides, but he hopes it will be enough. He wants to get Elliot just as worked up as he is. He wants Elliot to get so desperate that he tries to touch himself, so that Tyrell can slap his hands away and make him beg and plead for Tyrell to touch him instead. But—

"That the best you can do?" Elliot taunts after a minute or so. "You're not gonna make me come with just your fingers."

He's eyeing Tyrell's cock where it's pushing through his blue latex fist, and Tyrell shudders involuntarily at the thought that Elliot wants it inside him. The tight heat around his fingers brings a new throb of desire as he imagines that feeling around his cock instead, imagines spreading Elliot open on it, burying himself deep.

He wants to retort, _Who said I wanted to make you come?_ but the hateful truth is that he does, wants it desperately, so instead he finds himself saying, feebly, "I don't have any lubricant."

Elliot raises his eyebrows, unimpressed. "That's gonna stop you?"

Tyrell shifts uncomfortably. It feels too much like Elliot has the upper hand once again. He carefully withdraws his fingers, easing them out. "I—there are some things upstairs—"

Elliot cuts him off with a laugh. "What, you're gonna take me to your _bedroom?_ Way to kill the fucking mood." 

He makes as if to get up and Tyrell scrambles frantically, pushing him down again, hard enough that Elliot's head knocks against the floor and he hisses out a harsh breath. "Wait," Tyrell says, a touch hysterical, "no— _wait_."

He pins him to the floor but Elliot wriggles beneath him and Tyrell hurriedly straddles his thighs, putting his weight on him to keep him still.

"What, you don't like it when I struggle?" Elliot teases, and does so, putting real effort into it this time so that Tyrell really has to use his strength to keep him there.

" _No_ ," Tyrell bites out, flinging Elliot's arms out to his sides and gripping them hard enough to bruise. "I like it when you _stay put_ and do as you're told."

Elliot laughs at that, loudly, as if it's really, truly funny, and Tyrell can't stand it, slamming a hand down over his mouth to muffle the noise. He takes a moment, breathes in deep, gets himself back in control.

Then, experimentally, he lifts his weight off Elliot's legs just a little, and loosens his grip on the wrist he has pinned to the floor. He's afraid that Elliot will begin to fight him off again, but to his relief he has stilled. He waits another beat before removing his hand from Elliot's mouth as well.

"What? Just messing with you," Elliot says, tongue darting out to dab at the blood on his lip. "Thought it might add to the fun if I put up a bit of a fight. That not your thing? Must've read you wrong." He grins.

"Shut _up_ ," Tyrell hisses.

He moves back between Elliot's legs again, hooking his hands under Elliot's knees and lifting them up forcefully so that he can spit hard onto his hole.

"There you go," Elliot murmurs encouragingly. "That's the spirit."

Tyrell jabs his fingertips into the tender skin under Elliot's knees, wishing he wasn't wearing gloves so that he could really dig his nails in. He spits again, messy, and it feels good, watching his saliva dribble onto Elliot's ass. Elliot's cock jumps in response. It's so dark and full that it's almost purple, surely painfully hard. 

Tyrell's own cock is wet at the tip, and he smears it, smoothing pre-come down his shaft and willing his hands to stop trembling as he does so. The thought of finally getting to be inside of Elliot is making him shaky with desire. He can't think straight and he hates it, hates that this is something he still wants _so_ badly even after everything he's been through. Everything Elliot's put him through. He feels torn, constantly struggling between the desire to hurt Elliot because it's what Elliot wants, and the desire to cause so much pain that Elliot can no longer enjoy it. Each time he settles on one he suddenly realizes it's the other.

He tries to gather himself together. He undoes the last few buttons of his shirt, just enough to get it out of the way, and carefully removes his tie as well. For a moment he considers using it for something—to bind Elliot's wrists? No, he'd rather see if Elliot can keep his hands still of his own accord. Or perhaps he should gag him? No. He wants to be able to hear the noises that Elliot doesn't manage to stifle.

Finally, Tyrell steadies a hand on Elliot's hip and presses the blunt head of his cock against Elliot's hole. At first he doesn't think he can do it—doesn't think it will physically be _possible_ , Elliot barely stretched from his fingers and not nearly slicked enough—but he focuses and pushes and gets a sick pleasure from the force he has to use, the knowledge that it must hurt, even though he knows Elliot is probably enjoying it for that same reason.

Elliot grunts, and Tyrell glances up, sees that he's clearly working on making himself relax and open up for it. Tyrell pushes harder, gulps as the head of his cock fits in. He spits again. He tries to make it look as though Elliot disgusts him, tries to make it humiliating, but the truth is that they need it. He hates that he's afraid of hurting Elliot _too_ much. Something about the intimacy of the act and the grimace on Elliot's face makes him feel suddenly tender and gentle again. He grits his teeth and fights it, forces himself deeper, and Elliot _whines_ , twisting on the floor. But he's not flinching away, Tyrell realizes—he's pushing himself down onto Tyrell's cock, doing half the work, and the thought simultaneously arouses and angers him. 

He goes to hold Elliot still again, sweaty gloved fingers wrapping around his biceps and pinning him down as he thrusts the rest of the way, forces Elliot open for his cock. He can't hold back the whimper once he's fully inside, the tight heat almost unbearable, almost hurting _him_ , and Elliot is wide-eyed and open-mouthed, panting. 

"Is this why you came here?" Tyrell snarls, already beginning to ease himself back out, not giving Elliot a chance to get used to the feeling of fullness. "Looking for a fight? Looking to get fucked?"

Elliot rolls his eyes, dismissive even now, even impaled on Tyrell's cock like this, spread out naked beneath him on the dusty floor. "You wish," he gets out. His tone is careless but his voice is strained. "Like you haven't always wanted to fuck me. Like you haven't been fucking _dreaming_ of getting inside me ever since you first met me."

Tyrell seethes. It's true and they both know it and he _hates_ it. "I'm not the one who got hard while we were fighting," he says, pulling almost all the way out now, wincing at the drag of it but enjoying the way it feels as though Elliot is clinging to his cock.

"Didn't take you long to get there, though, did it? Not when you realized _I_ was." Elliot smirks at him, inhaling shakily. "So easy for me."

Tyrell slams his hips forward with as much force as he can bear, plunging his cock back in deep, and this time Elliot lets out a satisfying cry. 

"It hurts, doesn't it?" Tyrell breathes, leaning in closer than he has all night, close enough to smell the blood and sweat and other fluids on Elliot's face. He wants to hear him say it, wants to _know_ he's causing him pain. It's nothing, nothing compared to the pain Elliot has caused _him_.

"No shit," Elliot responds, and his voice betrays it, choked up, and he's red in the face, tears glinting in the corners of his eyes. But still he's wrapping his legs tighter around Tyrell's waist, lifting his hips, clearly relishing the feel of Tyrell's cock splitting him open. 

"You're a sick son of a bitch."

"Look who's talking."

Another hard thrust causes a tear to roll down Elliot's cheek and Tyrell is licking at it before he even knows what he's doing, tasting the salt of it on his tongue. Elliot quivers and lets out a loud, hiccupping sob into Tyrell's ear, and it's too much, all of it. The pressure on Tyrell's cock is unrelenting, making his nerves spark and crackle, and with no barrier between them he can feel it all so intensely. He tries to find a rhythm, but it's all so overwhelming that it's making him clumsy. Having Elliot here, under him—even though so much has changed between them, and even though it's angry and violent and dirty—it's something he's wanted for so long. It's hard to even think clearly. In the past, this is when Elliot would snap him out of it; guide him, teary-eyed and grateful, onto his cock, making it so he didn't have to think for himself, didn't have to worry about anything except what Elliot wanted.

But right now he doesn't care what Elliot wants—or, at least, he's trying his hardest not to—and it's dizzying to get to do it however he wants to, and to know that Elliot will take it. Maybe not the same way Tyrell always took it from him, so blissfully happy and eager, shamefully desperate for whatever Elliot was willing to give, but nevertheless, he's here, wrapped around him, gasping and grinding against him—finally, _finally_ needing him.

Tyrell straightens back up and draws Elliot close into the cradle of his hips, watching his cock as it disappears all the way in, held tight inside Elliot's body. The sight is mesmerizing, the way he's wedged inside, Elliot's hole reddened around the stretch. He keeps still for a long moment, until his cock begins to ache, and then he pulls Elliot back off it, easing out and watching Elliot's poor hole clench around nothing. He makes himself wait even though it's torture, even though he's desperate to sink back inside—he waits until Elliot is squirming impatiently, just how he wants.

"What, did you forget how to fuck all of a sudden?" Elliot snaps finally, and makes to reach down between them, pull Tyrell back inside of him himself. Tyrell slaps at his hand and forces it back to the floor, pressing hard enough that he can feel each of Elliot's knuckles grind against his palm through the latex of his glove.

He presses back in, filling him back up in one smooth stroke that brings a grateful groan from Elliot's lips. Tyrell still hasn't laid a finger on Elliot's cock and he can't believe that Elliot hasn't, if not begged for it, _demanded_ it in that bossy way of his. For a moment he wonders if Elliot doesn't even want it, if what he actually wants is to torture himself. Is that what all of this is about? A need for punishment? A way to try and exorcise his guilt over the things he's done—?

But Elliot is rocking back against him as if in pursuit of orgasm, his cock bobbing against his stomach, straining and leaking against it. He moves as if he doesn't need anything else, as if Tyrell could fuck him to release, as if that's all it would take. The thought knocks any sense from Tyrell's brain within seconds.

"You think you can come from only this?" Tyrell asks, and he's struggling to find the words in English now, so far gone. "Pathetic," he mutters, but seeing Elliot getting closer and closer, just from Tyrell's cock in him, not even needing to touch himself—it's driving him crazy. "You act like you never wanted me," Tyrell goes on, unable to stop himself now, "like you never loved me—but look at you. _Look_ at you. I know you do. I know it."

"Whatever you need to tell yourself, crazycakes," Elliot gets out, and Tyrell can tell he's aiming for a callous tone but he's breathless, so wound-up now that he can't fake it, can't pretend like he's unaffected. The thought that Tyrell has done this, turned him into this, is almost more than Tyrell can take.

Tyrell leans down over him, close enough that their noses bump as their bodies buck erratically against each other. He's not going to kiss him, he decides, as he feels Elliot's hot breath on his cheek, as the sight of his face begins to blur. He wants Elliot to do it, wants to _make_ him do it—but in the end they're both moving so frantically that he can't say for sure which of them closes the gap, only that Elliot's mouth is hot and tastes tangy with blood and salt, and the kiss is violent and desperate. Elliot's hand wrestles free from Tyrell's grip and goes to clutch the back of Tyrell's head, keeping him close, fingers tangling in his hair and _pulling_ , hard enough to make Tyrell gasp against Elliot's lips.

Suddenly Elliot's movements become much more controlled—Tyrell can feel him rubbing up against him, steadily sliding his cock back and forth against Tyrell's stomach as he meets every thrust, rucking up Tyrell's shirt with each push of his cock. Tyrell knows the friction of the fabric after so long without stimulation must be making him crazy, and suddenly he's angry again, angry that Elliot is taking charge so effortlessly—that he's going to make _himself _come. He bites down on Elliot's bottom lip in frustration and all of a sudden Elliot wails and goes tense, ass clenching around Tyrell's cock, fingers tightening in Tyrell's hair. Tyrell feels the splash of come between their bodies, wetting his crumpled shirt.__

__He pulls back abruptly. His anger dissipates instantly as if it were never there—feeling Elliot come, knowing he at least had some part in it, has drawn him so close to the edge so suddenly that he almost feels faint. He pulls out, stroking himself frantically the rest of the way there, looking at Elliot lying sprawled before him, wrecked and trembling, bruises blossoming on his arms and hips, come splattered on his chest and belly. Tyrell groans and pitches forward to add to the mess, spurting over Elliot's cock, come reaching as far as his collarbones and pooling between them._ _

__He sits back, breathing heavily as he comes down, unable to take his eyes off the sight in front of him. Elliot is shivering, his body bruised and beaten, flushed and sore. He looks ruined, utterly defiled, but there's a spark behind his glazed-over eyes._ _

__"Not bad," Elliot says after a moment. He wipes his forehead with the back of his hand, an absentminded gesture. "I should've put those particular skills of yours to use sooner."_ _

__Tyrell feels his face screw up as anger builds inside of him once again. Without the haze of arousal blurring everything, he can see clearly now. Of course. Elliot got exactly what he wanted. He knew what he was doing the whole time, goaded Tyrell into doing what _he_ wanted—just as he always has. He let Tyrell think he was the one in control, but now Tyrell realizes, with a sinking, sickening feeling—Elliot was pulling the strings all along. Rage simmers in Tyrell's stomach. He still refuses to believe he is the Dark Army's puppet, but now he is forced to face the fact that he is Elliot's, and he always will be._ _

__He wants to lash out and attack, but he's lost now, doubting himself, not knowing which of his desires are truly his own and which might have been planted there. Perhaps Elliot hasn't had enough; perhaps he _wants_ Tyrell to beat him senseless. With great effort he holds back, keeps his expression neutral, and waits a long moment, trying his hardest to tamp down his rage._ _

__Finally, he reaches down and sweeps both hands over Elliot's torso, over the blotchy scarred skin, meticulously gathering up their mingled come on his gloved fingers. He keeps an eye on Elliot's face, can see the hint of surprise there for just a second before he manages to hide it. Tyrell gets the gloves good and wet and then reaches forward and rubs both hands over Elliot's face, thoroughly smearing it with come. Then he runs one damp hand back through Elliot's hair and shoves the other up against his mouth, forcing it open and sticking three fingers inside for him to clean off what's left._ _

__Elliot gags, spluttering against the dirty latex, and finally Tyrell pulls back, sated. Steadying his breathing, he carefully peels each glove off, the air of the room pleasantly cool against the hot sticky skin underneath. He tosses the gloves aside, smiling wryly when one lands square in the middle of Elliot's chest. He gets back to his feet and methodically pulls up his pants and boxers, does up his fly. He re-buckles his belt, and tucks his shirt back in, as if it's not creased and stained beyond recognition. He even finds his tie and neatly knots it back around his shirt collar, frowning down at Elliot all the while like he's something somebody spilled on the floor. He's going to leave him here, he decides, sprawled out, naked and used on the hardwood._ _

__He considers Elliot's prone body, stepping beside it. He lifts his foot and kicks at Elliot's thigh, gently, and then his waist, prodding at it with the toe of his shoe just to see how he'll react. Elliot doesn't move, and Tyrell turns his back, satisfied, but as he walks away, he's startled to hear Elliot begin to laugh. The sound is hoarse and hearty, almost manic, and it sends a chill down Tyrell's spine._ _


End file.
